If there was one person more than another who wore out Miss Beach’s patience it was her niece and goddaughter, Mrs. Woodward.  She had a sincere affection for her, but their two personalities were at absolutely opposite poles.  She admitted that Florita was amiable, well-meaning, and thoroughly affectionate, but for the rest she considered her weak, foolishly helpless, liable to extravagance, a poor housekeeper, and a perfect jelly-fish in her methods of bringing up her family.  In vain did Aunt Harriet, on successive visits, preach firmness, order, consistency and other maternal virtues; her niece would brace herself up to a temporary effort, but would relax again directly her guest had departed, and the children—­little rogues!—­discovered at a remarkably early age that they could do pretty much as they liked.  The Woodwards always dreaded the advent of Aunt Harriet, her disapproval of their general conduct was so manifest.  By dint of urging from their mother they made extra attempts at good behavior before the august visitor, but they were subject to awful relapses.  Mrs. Woodward, on her side, considered she had her trials, for her aunt had a habit of arriving suddenly, giving only a few hours’ notice by telegram, and she could not forbear the suspicion that her revered godparent wished to surprise her housekeeping and catch her unprepared.  On one occasion, indeed, when the family came down—­rather late—­for breakfast, Aunt Harriet was discovered sitting on the rustic seat outside the dining-room window.  She explained that she had taken the 5 a.m. workmen’s train and had come to spend a long day with them, but not wishing to disturb the house at too early an hour she had remained in the garden enjoying the view until somebody arrived downstairs.  In spite of her rather angular attitude, Miss Beach was a very kind and generous friend to her widowed niece, and she was the one person in the world to whom Mrs. Woodward naturally thought of turning in time of trouble.  Aunt Harriet’s advice might not always be palatable, but it was combined with such practical help that there seemed no alternative but to follow it.

Miss Beach, though not a rich woman, was possessed of very comfortable private means.  She lived in an old-fashioned house just opposite the Abbey, and her windows looked out on a view of towers and cloisters and tall lime trees, with a foreground of monuments.  To some people the array of tombstones would have proved a dismal prospect, but she declared it never distressed her in the least.  She prided herself greatly on the fact that she had been born in the house where her father, grandfather and great-grandfather had also come into the world and spent their lives.  Except for an occasional expedition to Highfield, she rarely left home.  All her interests were in Seaton, and she became miserable directly if she were away from her native city.

The little Woodwards had never regarded it as much of a treat to go and stay at 10, Abbey Close.  The restraint which the visit necessitated quite neutralized the afternoon at the cinema with which their aunt invariably entertained them.  The fine old Chippendale furniture had to be treated with a respect not meted out to the chairs and tables at home, boots must be scrupulously wiped on the door-mat, bedrooms left tidy, and books and ornaments were to be held altogether sacred from the ravages of prying young fingers.